


'Cause you're my king and I'm your lionheart

by waywardrenegade



Series: king//lionheart [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: AUTHOR AU, Alternate Universe, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Inspired by Real Events, M/M, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:08:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2126325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrenegade/pseuds/waywardrenegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every fiber of Hank's being is screaming at him to just tell the guy to fuck off and cut his losses. However, Hank's never been one to shy from a challenge, and if he's honest with himself, it probably wouldn't hurt to socialize with a fellow writer, especially one with a face like this guy's.</p><p>Or: "The One Where Hank's a Stubborn Shit and Somehow Gets a Boyfriend"</p>
            </blockquote>





	'Cause you're my king and I'm your lionheart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kindofdanceit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindofdanceit/gifts).



> The Google Docs working title for this was "Literally inspired by a 40 second video of Hank being fucking hot and barefoot and outdoorsy (plus that one bit where he had a notebook and coffee) and well yeah...)" 
> 
> Title borrowed from Of Monsters and Men's "King and Lionheart". The title for Hank's novel is also definitely ganked from the band of the same name because I'm an unoriginal little shit.
> 
> As always, shout out to my Euro twin, kindofdanceit, for being the best ever. Also, thank you to McClellan95 for letting me flail a lot of this at her and coming up with at least 40% of the plot. :))
> 
> Con crit is not only welcomed but encouraged. (But please be gentle because I kind of like this story, even if I'm unsure if it worked like I wanted it to...)

Hank’s been counting down the minutes until he can escape the chaos that always seems to surround him when he's in Buffalo for the comfortable seclusion of Stephentown, of home. The infuriatingly commercial clock's steady _tick tick tick_ has been slowly driving him mad, stripping Hank of the scraps of sanity he claims to still possess.

Distantly, he knows his new editor, a stern looking woman with a severe bun scraped back into submission, _Jill_ his brain supplies helpfully, is commenting on revisions she'd like to see him make in the next draft of _The Head and the Heart_. However, Hank also knows he won't change a single word because he simply doesn't want to, so he nods when she looks at him expectantly and bolts out the door with his leather messenger slung over his shoulder as soon as he's allowed.

He was forced to park several blocks away, just another reason he hates the city if he's honest, so he remembers that he desperately needs a new Moleskine and an ink refill for his favorite Ballograf pens as he's walking past the only artsy store in all of Buffalo that carries Ballograf refills.

Sure, he _could_ use an American brand, but it is part being a superstitious writer and part Swedish-ism that he goes out of his way to use what he knows.

Hank's a creature of habit, so he grabs his typical plain black Moleskine notebook within a minute of being in the shop and then decides one can never have too many pens and reaches for one those as well. He's finally going for the ink refill he needs just as another hand knocks into his as it snatches away the last pack. Normally, Hank would just brush it off derisively as some fucking _tourist_ , but he'd clearly been reaching for it, goddammit.

"What the hell?" Hank growls softly, already agitated and ready to snap from having to venture the 5+ hours to downtown Buffalo. He goes to meet the other man's eyes defiantly but finds he has to look up several inches, which he wasn't expecting.

"Uh, I need these," the man says unapologetically with a quirk to his mouth that says he's not going to back down.

"Yeah, me too which is why I was taking them from the shelf. Can I just pay you for them? I really need them," is Hank's reply, already reaching into his bag for his wallet.

The man, who's apparently trying to singlehandedly shit all over Hank's day, just shakes his head solemnly. And okay, now Hank's getting pissed.

"What could you possibly need with Ballograf ink? It's not a damn tourist souvenir," Hank spits out as his temper flares. Something in the man’s nonchalance and unrepentant expression is just rubbing Hank the wrong way. (He most certainly _doesn’t_ spare a thought toward how the man’s pale, thin hands could rub him the right way.)

"What could _you_ possibly need with Ballograf ink?" the man snarks back, the hand not holding what should be Hank's ink balled into a tight fist at his side. Hank almost hopes the man will try to hit him, if only to say he’d had his hands on him.

"I'm a writer. We have our quirks, and mine is needing to always use the same pens. Not only that, but I'm fucking Swedish. They're what I can get of home here." Hank's shuffling his feet in an attempt not to throw a full-blown tantrum, but he's not entirely sure it's working for him.

Rather than answer at first, the other man pulls a well-worn stack of papers from his backpack, that after a second glance, Hank can plainly tell is a manuscript similar to his own. Which okay, point. He’s also more than a little impressed that the man didn’t pull out a sleek laptop instead.

"Well, now I know where the accent's from," he pauses to grin at Hank before continuing, "Make you a deal, since it's the last pack and you're a long way from home. I'll split it with you but only if you come to a party with me tonight, deal?"

Every fiber of Hank's being is screaming at him to just tell the guy to fuck off and cut his losses; he's got a new pen, so the ink is a bit superfluous anyway. However, Hank's never been one to shy from a challenge, and if he's honest with himself, it probably wouldn't hurt to socialize with a fellow writer, especially one with a face like this guy's.

"Alright, deal. Want to tell me your name first though?" Hank says civilly as he extends a hand as a show of truce.

"Damn, no way I thought you'd actually go through with this. I gotta hand it to you though, your people make the absolute best pens. Oh, and I'm Marc. Marc Staal. And you?"

Hank bites back a smug grin as he introduces himself; he loves never doing what others expect of him. "Henrik Lundqvist or you can call me Hank, whichever really."

True to his word, Marc pays for his supplies as Hank does the same before opening the ink pack and handing one cartridge to Hank with a smile. He's giving Hank an out on his end of the bargain, and Hank clearly knows it which is why he says, "So, want to get some food before this party?"

They wind up at a little bistro Marc swears has the best watercress and salmon paninis, talking about their work. If Hank would've had to guess, he never would have predicted they'd get on this well or have so much in common.

It turns out Marc's just finished writing a novel about four brothers who grew up on a sod farm in Thunder Bay, Ontario, in which three of the four play hockey and apparently are really good at it. The fourth brother's a bit of a black sheep and marches to the off kilter beat of his own drum.

It sounds suspiciously like a semi-autobiographical undertaking, especially when Hank factors in the slight tinge of an inflection to Marc's words he couldn't quite place before. However, if Marc doesn't feel it's pertinent to mention, then Hank isn't going to pry.

He tells Marc about his latest work, a novel called _The Head and the Heart_ about a man whose wife leaves him because he works too much to have time left over for her and the relationship with his childhood best friend that comes out of it.

"So, Tomas," Marc begins, referring to the main character, "He's just discovering he's gay right?" Hank nods as Marc continues, "And does his friend know that?"

"Zane's put two and two together over the years. There were times they'd, um, help each other out when they were awkward teenagers, and Tomas has always known about Zane. He wasn't attracted to him until after his marriage failed," Hank tapers off, wondering if it's as obvious to Marc as it was to him what his inspiration was. Thankfully Marc seems to operate under the same "don't ask, don't tell" policy as him.

They finish their meal, Hank insisting on paying the bill, before Marc scrawls an address on a cocktail napkin just in case Hank can't follow him in the heavy traffic. It's a smart idea actually, and Hank tells him so, which earns him a sharp slap to the upper arm.

Marc walks Hank to his totally-out-of-place-in-the-city monstrous Dodge Ram with a comment about how Hank must hate the environment before walking a bit down the same block to a dark blue Honda CR-V.

Hank follows Marc to the suburbs, some relaxing country song on the radio and the breeze in his hair. At stoplights, Marc leans out the driver's window to make obscene gestures at him. It makes Hank feel better about willingly spending this much time with someone who's virtually a stranger.

When they finally come to a stop in front of a rustic looking house with a wraparound porch, Hank tenses as he realizes what kind of party he'd unknowingly agreed to attend. Not the "hey man, I totally got a keg and there's a beer pong table set up in the basement" type so much as the kind with extended family members and mantra of "oh honey, we're so proud of you for getting your first novel published. We always knew you could do it".

Hank shoots Marc a helpless look, and the panic he feels churning in his stomach must be clearly reflected on his face because Marc doesn't let loose the quip he'd been so obviously about to deliver. In fact, he even has the decency to look abashed.

"So um, listen. I'm gay, you're hot, and I need my family off my back about me 'being the only Staal left unmarried' and 'oh my god it's so unsightly that you're still single and without kids'. I mean, not that they've ever explicitly said those words, but still. Please, Hank, be my pretend boyfriend just for the night. _Please?_ " Marc rambles, clearly uncomfortable and blushing a furious shade of scarlet.

Something in his spooked expression and the way Marc keeps raking a hand through his hair catches Hank off guard like a sucker punch to the solar plexus, so he agrees to help as he smooths the errant strands left poking up from Marc's assault.

Hank purposefully wraps an arm around Marc's skinny waist before leaning in close to whisper, "Do they even know about you liking guys?" Marc shivers in response, just like Hank knew he would, so he takes the opportunity to pull Marc against him and nip at his jaw playfully.

"Nope, but they're about to so buckle up," Marc grins maniacally, too toothy to look sane, dropping his hand to intertwine his fingers with Hank's.

They walk into what Hank has gathered is Marc's place, if the kitschy 'Leaf Me Alone' sign on the front door in the shape a maple leaf is anything to go by, still holding hands and wearing identical smiles.

It's pretty clear when Marc's family notices them standing in the doorway observing the party where Marc's supposed to be the guest of honor; there's an abrupt halt in conversation as everyone pauses and notices that Marc's not alone. Usually, Hank isn't shy, but the way that at least 20 sets of eyes wash over him full of questions, and some even outright hostility, doesn't sit well with him.

Marc gives his hand a placating squeeze as he takes a deep breath before saying, "Hey guys, this is Hank, my boyfriend. Um, you haven't met him before, obviously, so please be nice, for my sake, eh?" He just barely stumbles over the "my boyfriend" part but not enough to be noticeable.

It's not long before Hank's confronted by three insanely tall guys, two blonds and a ginger, who can only be Marc's brothers, the hockey players. The eldest shoulder checks him, throwing him off balance, as he begins the cliché "hurt him and I'll hurt you" shtick.

Hank puts up both hands in a passive gesture as he says calmly, "Look, Eric," he takes a second to mentally high five himself for remembering which of the Staal clones is which, "I really like your brother, and I'm not going to hurt him, promise."

It's not a lie, not really, because he does like Marc, he wouldn't be here in the first place if he didn't, but then Jordan has to complicate this whole thing even more by adding, "Good, man. Because he's gone on you. We could see that as soon as you walked in." Which what the actual fuck? No.

Hank makes conversation with them for a while longer because it looks like Marc's having an existential crisis as he explains his sexuality to his parents with exaggerated hand motions that get progressively more dramatic. This is the point in the evening where Hank should slip quietly out the front door and the Staals' lives if he had even a lick of sense, but no one's ever said Hank is the valiant type, so he sidles up to Marc and presses into his side.

Hank can tell from the way Marc immediately sags against him that he made the right choice. He answers Marc's parents' questions with a smile that's mostly genuine and sees Marc visibly relax. He's a lot more comfortable than he'd have imagined he be, if ever he could have pictured himself in this situation.

It's around 10 when Marc's relatives and friends start slumping out to their cars, clapping Marc on the back, and telling Hank how nice it was to meet him. He helps Marc clean up the worst of the party debris before sending him a beseeching glance over the top of a precariously balanced stack of beer cans.

"Yeah, I suppose the least I could do to make up for dragging you here under false pretenses is let you stay the night. Want my bed or the living room sofa?" Marc says as he scrubs the dishes in the sink vigorously, soap bubbles floating up to rest in the tangled mess of his hair.

Hank steps behind him and slings an arm lowly around Marc's hips as his other hand brushes away the Dawn bubbles. It's a practiced move from practically every romantic movie ever, and entirely too domestic to use on a stranger, but Hank's pliant from several beers and the ease of being near Marc, so he doesn't think too much of it.

Like earlier, Marc goes nearly limp under his touch, so Hank hauls him backward into his chest and hooks his chin over Marc's shoulder, having to stand a bit on his tip toes to reach. They stand there for a while, Hank's hand just wandering over Marc's clothed skin until pausing just before pushing up the hem of his shirt to skim over his abs.

"It's okay, Hank. You can touch; you've been a saint, hanging around and playing a role that I pushed you into. It's only fair," Marc breathes roughly. And sure, that's not entirely accurate, but it's been a while, Marc's consented, and he's not exactly hard to look at. Hank figures it could be fun to mess him up a little, mark up that pale skin, and count his freckles with featherlight kisses.

He lets Marc gently push him toward the master bedroom as he shrugs out of his T-shirt. Marc gasps breathily as he takes in the smooth, tanned expanse of Hank's chest. He isn't arrogant by any stretch of the imagination, but Hank's self aware enough to know he's attractive and how people react to him because of it.

There's barely a moment's hesitation on Marc's part, punctuated by an appreciative "Fuck..." before he's all over Hank, fingers twisted in his hair, lips pressing against his, and a thigh wedged firmly between Hank's.

Hank's man enough to admit he doesn't really try to restrain himself as he ruts against Marc's leg and bites into the kiss. It's a bit uncoordinated but still so good, and he pulls back just far enough to suck and nip at the ridiculous angles of Marc's jaw yet again.

They break away to shed the rest of their clothes, left in boxer briefs and messy hair, before crashing back into each other and landing in a heap of limbs and laughter on the bed. Marc straddles Hank's hips, tips forward just enough to apply a little pressure before kissing Hank chastely and saying goodnight.

Hank's pretty sure his flabbergasted expression says what his mouth can't, but Marc just crawls off him carefully and snuggles into his back. So apparently not only isn't he getting laid, Hank has also become the little spoon. What even is his life? He thinks he could probably care more if Marc wasn't so alluringly grumpy and didn't feel so nice lined up perfectly behind him. It's the last thought he has before he drifts off into one of the most peaceful sleeps he's had in a long while, half blanketed by Marc, with his soft breaths caressing his neck on every exhale.

When he wakes, Hank discovers Marc's not a morning person, blinking at him, clearly not comprehending, and mouth set in a pissy scowl. He tries to disentangle himself from Marc's octopus limbs without jostling him too much as he goes in search of a bathroom then coffee.

Blessedly, he finds that Marc has the same coffee maker as him, and he has the common sense to keep the grounds in a container next to it. Oddly enough, it's that revelation which causes a swell of affection to rise in his chest, pushing its way up his throat until Hank's nearly choking on it. He has to remind himself that feeling anything for the lanky author who essentially stole his ink and then coerced him into playing boyfriends for his family is a spectacularly awful idea.

Of course that plan is shot to shit fairly quickly when Marc stumbles out of his room in boxers and bare feet, hair a ginger halo of utter chaos, and his cheeks still stained pink from sleep. He's practically the living embodiment of everything Hank didn't know he wanted until he did. Which is exactly the kind of thinking that's always fucked him over in the past, so he pushes a mug of coffee across the counter toward Marc without a word.

Marc doesn't say anything right away, much more in favor of gulping his coffee and sneaking little glances at Hank, _probably to gauge the awkwardness of the situation_ Hank thinks miserably.

He thinks this is his cue to pull on his wrinkled clothes from yesterday and slink out with his tail between his legs and not so much as a look over his shoulder, so he stands slowly and turns his back to Marc. Which is why it throws him for a fucking loop to feel Marc's lips pressing against the back of his neck before Marc rests his head on his shoulder and says mildly, "Thinking of doing a walk of shame, Hank?"

Hank knows his body betrays him horribly as the tips of his ears flush, and he sighs, torn between knowing he's found out and finding he doesn't really care so much.

"I wasn't sure how this was going to go. Still not, if I'm being honest," Hank replies, trying not to give away how much he really wants to get to know Marc more instead of retreating back to his farm, alone.

"Hey," Marc starts quietly, shifting until he's looking at Hank, appraising him, before tipping his chin up to meet his eyes. "I know this is dumb, I just met you, but I feel like maybe this could grow. I mean, I'd like to see, if you'd be okay with that?" He's a rambling mess and still warm from sleep, and Hank just has to kiss him.

"What are you doing the next few days? Come home with me," Hank says boldly, throwing what little caution he still possesses to the wind and just going for what he wants for a change.

Marc grins at him mischievously before answering, "Well, I was hoping to go home with a gorgeous Swede, so I guess that works out for me." Hank lets that one go as he pops some whole grain bread in the toaster and smacks lightly at Marc's ass.

Marc stuffs some extra clothes and a toothbrush in his backpack before declaring himself ready to go. Hank warns him that it's a 5 hour drive on a good day and Stephentown is literally in the middle of bum fuck nowhere upstate New York, to which Marc tells him about growing up on a sod farm, so he figures this won't be too painful. Except how he apparently forgot to allow for Marc's god fucking awful, off key singing about how he's "so fancy, you already know"...

Hank stops at a McDonald's for a bag of McDoubles so Marc can stuff his face full of mystery meat and give him a break from his blossoming music career. He hopes he's being subtle.

The first thing Marc does when he sees Hank's place, known officially as Twin Pond Farm, is breathe a sigh of what sounds like relief. Hank shoots him a questioning glance, which earns him a "Having grown up on a real farm, I get a little leery when people say they live on a farm because 95% of the time, it's just a glorified plot of land away from the city. But this, _this_ is a farm." The smile he somehow manages to repress lurks somewhere in his tone, not quite as hidden as Hank thinks he probably means for it to be.

Hank walks the perimeter of the larger of the ponds with Marc, a bag of stale bread between them, as they feed ducklings and learn more about each other. Marc tells him how he came to realize he was a shade different from his brothers, in both the hockey and liking dudes ways, and Hank relates stories from his time in Sweden.

The conversation flows naturally between them, not stilted or awkward, which is a relief since Marc can't really just leave if they find they don't get on nearly as well without Marc's family nearby or with a lack of clothing. They talk until the sunset looms, casting a red-gold light over Hank's land, which he goes to point out to Marc, but breaks off as soon as he looks his way.

The waning sun throws Marc's angular face into a sharp contrast of smooth lines and turns his hair a brilliant shade of burnt orange so breathtaking that it leaves Hank speechless. He just stares, transfixed and totally overwhelmed, before surging forward to capture Marc's lips with his own. It feels like a proper first kiss, the one they should have waited for.

Hank lets Marc take control of the grill, cooking the steaks he'd thankfully had in the freezer, as he prepares a spinach and feta salad for them. He eyes the unopened bottle of Merlot in his wine fridge, not sure if this is all moving too quickly but not quite caring either. In the end, he brings the bottle and a pair of stemless wine glasses out to the patio to ultimately let Marc make the decision for him.

They eat in relative silence, mostly just forks on china, the clinking of wine glasses that Marc keeps topping off, and the soft melody of the crickets in the fields around them. His hand keeps straying sideways to play with the hem of Marc's shirt, but Marc doesn't seem to mind the pointless contact.

Marc's the first person Hank has had at the farm who doesn't share his blood, and while he thought he'd be anxious the first time it happened, something in Marc's reserved nature soothes his raw nerves like a balm. It's kind of as if Marc's been what's missing from his life, but it wasn't until he saw him in his space, eating from his plates, and sprawled casually in the Adirondack chair he paid too much money for, that he realizes it.

They turn in for the night, Marc padding his way into Hank's bedroom, and maybe a little into his heart, wearing black boxer briefs and a Carolina Hurricanes shirt with E. Staal #12 emblazoned across the planes of his back. It makes Hank ache in a good way to see firsthand how devoted Marc still is to his family, even when he'd felt like an outcast among them for so long. He can't even find it in himself to be ashamed by how desperately he folds into Marc's side.

The familiar scratching at the patio door on the deck outside of his room wakes Hank in the early morning. He stretches and tugs on a grey v-neck before heading toward his kitchen, a cup of coffee already waiting thanks to the programmable setting, to grab the canister of cat food he keeps in the cabinet next to the stove.

Marc emerges a while later, unbeknownst to Hank, and just stands in the doorway watching as Hank feeds a handful of cats who are clearly strays and talks to them softly. He tells them about a man he's just met but maybe, possibly, definitely is falling for even though he doesn't know his favorite color or even what book made him want to be a writer.

The man, Hank tells the cats, has hair the color of the most perfect sunset and eyes you could get lost in for days, freckles he wants to count with kisses, and a personality that complements his, the yang to his yin, the light to his dark. It honestly takes Marc a minute to realize Hank's talking about him, that he sees Marc like that, when Marc's never really seen himself as anything other than the weird Staal, an outcast in his own skin.

Watching Hank in his element, at ease with himself and his surroundings, in just a t-shirt and worn jeans cut off below the knee, his cup of coffee balanced on the railing with a page of crossed out scribbles in a Moleskine next to it, Marc knows he could get used to this, he could learn to love Hank if allowed. He thinks he'd be allowed to.

**Author's Note:**

> The video to blame here is Hank's stupid ad for Bread and Boxers, which can be seen here (if you'd like to ruin your life too). http://youtu.be/RjrdK_sZ-mI
> 
> I'm not entirely sure why he insisted he's a reclusive, somewhat broody writer who relocated from Sweden to a secluded farm in upstate NY, but he is the King after all. Also, I tried to do geography correctly, but if you know the area and spot anything that doesn't work, please let me know! ***for reference, this the farm I found for Hank. http://www.landwatch.com/Rensselaer-County-New-York-Farms-and-Ranches-for-sale/pid/200015790
> 
> There'll most likely be a follow up because I'm weak for these two...


End file.
